


Mighty & Fearsome

by kathkin



Series: witcher prompt fills [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:54:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: "Sing to me, O muse, of the mighty Geralt of Rivia, he of the silver hair and remarkably firm abdominal muscles – how do you get them so firm, by the by?”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: witcher prompt fills [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093319
Comments: 11
Kudos: 227





	Mighty & Fearsome

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [thedaywasnews](http://thedaywasnew.tumblr.com/) for the following prompts from [this two part drabble challenge](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/639250814299521024/two-part-drabble-game):
> 
> _20 - Both are drunk and happy_
> 
> _37 - “You’re stuck with me, like it or not.”_

“I am going,” says Jaskier, gesticulating giddily with his mug, “to write you an epic.”

“About today?” Geralt swigs his beer.

“Mm-hm,” says Jaskier. “It was, was very splendid work. I think it ought to be memorialised.”

“Pretty short battle for an epic poem.”

“Eh,” Jaskier says, “I can embellish.”

The tavern around them is still boisterous. The locals had gone through three choruses of _Toss a Coin_ in their excitement before, mercifully, moving on to more general drinking songs. It’s well into the night and as yet neither Geralt nor Jaskier has been asked to pay for any of their drinks.

“Let’s see.” Jaskier strikes a pose, one hand outstretched, ready to recite. “Sing to me, O muse, of the mighty Geralt of Rivia, he of the silver hair and remarkably firm abdominal muscles – how do you get them so firm, by the by?”

“Witcher mutagens,” says Geralt.

“Mutagens,” says Jaskier. “Fancy. Sing to me, O muse, of the mighty Geralt of Rivia, he of the silver hair, yadda yadda – and his battle with the mighty –”

“You said mighty already,” Geralt puts in.

“Fearsome,” Jaskier says, not skipping a beat. “The fearsome kih – um, kimikora – no, that isn’t right.”

“Kikimora,” says Geralt.

Jaskier toasts him warmly with his cup. “That’s the bitch. His battle with the fearsome kikikimora – listen, I hope you’re getting this down, because I’m not.”

“I’m committing it to memory,” laughs Geralt.

“Why are you laughing?” says Jaskier, indignant. “This is no laughing matter. I don’t think you’re taking my art seriously.”

“Do I ever?”

“I’d like to think so.” Jaskier swigs ale. “You know, if you’re going to be like this, perhaps I shall find a new muse. How about _that_.”

“Not likely,” says Geralt.

“Please,” says Jaskier. “I could get a new muse any time I wanted.”

“I made you famous, bard,” Geralt says. “You’d be ruined without me.”

“Piffle.”

“You’re stuck with me – like it or not.”

Jaskier wags a finger at him. “Just for that I’m leaving you,” he says. “I shall henceforth write all my poems about that, um – _that_ young lady.” He points unsteadily at a curly-haired girl by the bar. “I’m sure her exploits will be the stuff of legend. Stop _laughing!_ ”

“The epic of the mighty milkmaid,” Geralt chuckles.

“Milkmaids have very strong hands.” Jaskier gestures vaguely with his mug, slopping half its contents onto the floor. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Powerful wrist muscles. She could strangle a kimikarora if she wanted. Did you get down any of the epic? I don’t remember it but it felt like good stuff while I was reciting it – seriously, _why_ are you laughing?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Fuck you!” says Jaskier. “And you have kikimorka guts in your hair, but some of us have the decency not to make personal remarks.”

Geralt investigates the guts – which are mostly dry – and flicks them away into a patch of sawdust. When he looks back up, Jaskier is in the process of downing the rest his drink.

“You are correct,” he says, setting down the cup. “I am plastered, sozzled – one might even say inebriated. But you, sir, are no better.”

“I’m a little better,” says Geralt.

“Ehh,” says Jaskier. “Debatable. I, I saw you at the whisky earlier. O barmaid!” he cries, flagging her down and gesturing expansively at their table. “Another round for the hero of the hour and his faithful barker, thank you kindly.”

“Am I going to have to carry you home?”

Jaskier touches a hand to his chest. “Would you?”

“Only if you promise not to throw up.”

“Now that,” says Jaskier, wagging an unsteady finger at him, “I’m afraid I cannot do.”


End file.
